The Science of Survival
by ModernElegy
Summary: All his life John Watson had been making his own opportunities because the universe, and the Capitol, sure weren't going to provide him with any.
1. Chapter 1

The Science of Survival

He really shouldn't have been surprised. After all, he'd never been a boy who'd been lucky. In fact, it was quite the opposite- all his life John Watson had been making his own opportunities because the universe, and the Capitol, sure weren't going to provide him with any.

So the morning of his last Reaping, John should have been well and fully prepared to hear Kyra Duneffrey, an overbearingly cheerful representative who had the misfortune to be assigned to District Twelve, announce that John Watson would be the male tribute sent to the forty-first annual Hunger Games. No, it was only when he felt hands on his arm, shaking and tight, and saw his elder sister's face stricken with grief, guilt and hesitation that John patted her and broke away, traveling to the stage to face the ragged, starving crowd.

No, John Watson was not expecting this, but he should have. After this year, he wouldn't have been eligible for the games, and Harriet, or Harry as he called her, was older than him and had already gone for six years without being chosen. In fact, both of them had taken Tesseraes every year- supporting a household that was already broken beyond repair. Those extra rations of grain had kept themselves alive, kept alive a mother who could barely leave her bed from chronic sickness of the mind, kept alive a father who stayed away from their shack as much as possible.

It was a blur, being ushered to the mayor's house that John barely noticed who the female tribute was- some girl he had never met. They waited, fingers twisting nervously. The girl was young, thin (like so many of the Seam), and seemed even more bewildered than John, who was still wrapped in the fog of impossibility.

Kyra entered, an energetic smile matching her energetic gait. "You two must be so excited! You have the honor of representing District Twelve in this year's games! And you'll get to visit the Capitol…" John tuned her out, staring ahead without seeing. But when Kyra's hand touched his arm, he wasn't startled, and when she introduced the female tribute, "John this is Sarah!" he reached forward to shake her hand. Sarah was trembling. John was not. Sarah, he learned, was thirteen, only her second year of Reaping. She knew that she had no chance against the well-trained, well-fed tributes of the richer districts.

John heard and absorbed all this information because, though his reactions were still in a fog, his mind was sharp. His hands didn't shake and, despite himself, his mind was already whirling, making plans for getting himself out of that arena.

Because John Watson had seen a lot of trouble in his life. And he was planning on staying alive to see more.

The goodbyes were harder than John expected, since to him the idea of dying to him was an alien concept, one that didn't factor in to his equation. Harry ran in, not wasting a second of their hour together. John didn't expect his parents to come. With this latest blow, he was sure that his mother was curled up in their bed. And his father… well, he wasn't quite sure what his father might be thinking. Though he worked in the coal mines, it was his children that were indispensible. Without John, and Harry out of the Reaping… this might end the family.

But Harry didn't see that- or at least didn't acknowledge it. Instead she hugged him tightly. The siblings had their issues through the years. Both had signed up for the extra rations, but beyond that, Harry was irresponsible. Skipped school, stayed with her string of girlfriends, and the violence around them had turned her to the white alcohol. John, on the other hand, did everything he could for his family- little and broken though it was, it was all he had. He didn't go to school either. But John was also working in the mines- had been for only two years. After work, he took over his mother's duties as well. She was the town's only doctor until a few years ago, and until John was fourteen, there was no one to care for the sick. Around that time, John had enough of watching people waste away from mere colds or mining accidents, had picked up his mother's books, and opened the family's doors to those in need, free of charge.

But now, John held his sister, understanding without words that she wished she could volunteer for him. Not because he did more, but because they were family and he would do the same for her.

"Johnny," she said, resting her forehead on his shoulder. "You're a fighter, you always have been. You need to come back, okay? Not just for mom and dad but for me."

He pressed his arms around her and nodded, not trusting his voice just yet. Sarah was on the other side of the room with her mother and younger brother, their whole family a little unit or sadness and love. Then the door opened again, and john expected Kyra to come in, announcing that their hour was up. But no, it wasn't Kyra, though he knew his hour would be up soon. No, standing in the doorway was his father- tall, broad shouldered, gruff. Harry broke away at John's stiffening. She blinked owlishly up that the man.

He came over, standing awkwardly beside the two occupying the large seat. John didn't know what to say, but his father- man of few words- simply clapped his shoulder.

"Your mother sends her love," he said, voice thick and gravelly like always.

John doubted that, but wouldn't say anything. Instead he nodded. "Thanks."

Harry reached over to squeeze the elder man's fingers, forming a sort of chain.

And they were like Sarah's family, small, sad, and strong in their own way.

* * *

><p>It was on the train that John was introduced to his team. His stylist was a kindly woman, probably in her forties with delicate lines creasing her face. Everything about her was very natural. The Capital was famous for its cosmetic physical enhancements. Tattoos were only the start of it- hair, skin color, eye shape, height, silhouette. Anything you can dream up was being done above and beyond there. Someone from District Twelve could not think up much, but this woman, Olive Haversham, was gentle and natural.<p>

Her team of three stylists however, was not. The two women were both a slight bluish color. John thought at first that they were sick, but apparently, a pale sky color was the latest fashion craze. The man was covered in swirling black spots that seemed to move and undulate on his skin. His hair looked as if it might take an eye out.

But they didn't do much to him- waxed his face (which was certainly odd, John never thought facial hair was such a big deal and had never paid any attention to his eyebrows until they were thick, dark arcs over his eyes, perfectly shaped), and had him bathe until he was sure that he sparkled. Then he sat with Olive.

"I think Fenry was a little too overenthusiastic about my brows," John complained of the male stylist, rubbing his forehead. "But what can I expect? I swear I could use hair like that as a weapon." The remark wasn't sobering- in fact it caused Olive to chuckle warmly.

"Well you are going to be on television dear. Now then, we must discuss your outfit."

"Outfit?"

"Yes. You are to be presented to the Capital's audience- the interview."

Of course. The interview. A crucial moment because a good interview could mean good sponsors, and good sponsors might make the difference between life and death. A short, underfed boy from District Twelve didn't stand much of a chance in the way of sponsors- not when the kids form the first four districts were so well prepared. Career tributes, they were called. Teens that spent their childhoods training to bring home glory and endless money and food. Teens who volunteered for the Games- not because they were saving a friend or family member, but because they wanted the chance to live in history.

"We'll have time to think about it, of course. I already have some ideas. Coal is hard enough to work with." True. The outfits were always based on the district's export. District three often came out as the most innovative, because they made electronic gadgets and nothing was really out of bounds. District six, the district of precious metals, also never spared an expense, but usually those tributes' only moment of glory was the interview because very few ever made it through and won.

The carriage door slid open, and Olive turned, smiling. In the door frame was a young man, impossibly tall and thin but in a much healthier way than John had ever seen. His eyes were clear, bright and blue, and his expression was unreadable, hints of exasperation and curiousness peeking through. He also had a natural look, like Olive's, but sharper, more defined.

"Oh John, this is going to be your coach for the games."

Normally, tributes were coached by the most recent winner from their district. District Twelve had never had a winner, so one was provided by the Capital each year. The coaches were often second rate, had no clue how to survive on their own (for in the Capital no one ever had to) and didn't care all that much, predicting (quite correctly) that any tribute was dead in the water.

John nodded, reaching his hand out, but the man (really, he could have only been in his twenties, just a bit older than John himself), only studied him.

Then he acknowledged Olive and turned around and left. John looked bewildered.

"Don't mind him dear, he's always like that."

"But… he didn't even say hello."

She sighed heavily. "He's a brilliant man, a genius really, and doesn't coach very often. He likes to choose who he coaches and they always win."

John looked impressed, his hope starting to burn a bit brighter. "You know him?"

"Oh yes. I can't say exactly what he does for a living- shady work of you ask me- but he does help people. Quite a bit."

"And he picked _me_?" John felt flattered for a second, before regarding Olive's expression.

"I… I'm sorry dear, I don't think so."

And just like that, John withdrew, spending the rest of the ride in silence while Olive talked clothing details.

His whirring mind stopped. He was doomed.

* * *

><p>The first night in the Capital accommodations was terrible. John barely got any sleep, wakened by nightmares of explosions and Peacekeepers and trains driving into great walls of fire. Deciding that being alone with his thoughts was a lesser evil than being alone with his dreams, he spent the remainder of the night by the window, nodding off every now and then only to wake to horrible images of the dead and dying.<p>

So he thought about his mentor- nameless for now, and so intimidating. Without a good mentor there wasn't any chance. Even a good Capital mentor was better than none at all. But if his refused to speak to him… Harry was going to be so upset.

Breakfast was a stifling affair. The man was there, occasionally looking at him but still coming to the, apparently, same conclusion. John realized he couldn't really blame him. He was skinny, short for his age and gender, and came from the notoriously poor, ill-performing District Twelve. But that heavy, resigned feeling from the train and the sleepless night was starting to vanish in the man's presence. Instead, he felt angry. Really angry. In fact, it made him want to start the Games right now just to prove his mettle.

But he said nothing, finishing his meal then meeting with his stylists in silence, letting them do whatever they needed to to make themselves, and the Capital, happy. He didn't need a mentor- especially not such a condescending bastard of one. No, John Watson was going to go out there and come out alive. Come out a champion.

So when, that night, he passed by the so-called mentor, he stopped him drawing himself up to his full five feet seven inches of height, and looked him dead in the eye.

"Look. I know I'm not the biggest tribute, nor the best prepared. I come from the district that has never produced a winner. But I am going to fight. Because I don't plan on returning home in a body bag. So you can take your sideways glances, and you can moan about having to watch over some scrappy kid, because I don't need you." He narrowed his eyes. "I don't plan on losing."

He walked away, leaving this man in his wake.

Until there was a hand on his shoulder, stopping him. He turned, keeping the same proud countenance on his features.

"You have never been one to bend under pressure. You've been an accident before but you don't let it define you. Peacekeepers have destroyed your family, quite possibly turning your brother to drinking, most likely causing him to drop out of school. Your mother isn't there mentally- because of the accident you were in, and because of the Peacekeepers, and your father isn't home much. He probably resents your resilience."

John stared at him, mouth open, eyes blinking in a fish-like manner. "How… how did you know that?"

"I read it. In your face, your stance."

"But, Harry… and my parents."

The man sighed. "It's quite obvious, isn't it?"

"Sorry _how_?"

The man then rolled his eyes, probably used to having this conversation with people. "Well I can tell by the way you hold yourself that, while your previous injury doesn't hurt it was quite traumatic and you still carry around the memory. Mothers hate to see their children injured, so naturally it would affect her. But you took extra rations, putting yourself in danger, and work in the mines judging by the state of your hands. A child doing that, providing more for the family than his father, would make any father hurt, would damage his pride. Working that hard, and knowing you have a brother, means that said brother would not be working hard- the alcohol was a guess, but it's common enough, and most people dealing with trauma by goofing off skip school."

"And the Peacekeepers?"

The man pulled John's arm up, showing the solitary scar snaking around it. "A scar like this can only be made by a whip, and whips are only carried around by Peacekeepers."

He smiled then, satisfied with himself. "The name is Sherlock Holmes, and we best start planning your strategy for… 'getting out of this alive' tomorrow."

Before he could leave, John uttered an involuntary "Brilliant!" before flushing red. "Sorry."

The mentor- Sherlock- looked surprised but then waved it off. "No. That's fine. Tomorrow. Early."

He turned the corner, and John's fortitude was renewed.

The universe, and the Capital, had never provided opportunities for him. But he was going to make his own.

* * *

><p>AN: What the actual what am I doing? I'm being a sick, sick fool. Literally. Laid up in bed with e summer head cold of death, I probably should have gone on a "Sherlock" binge after breezing through 'Catching Fire' without having Mockingjay in my possession.

Some thoughts- I think these worlds blend really nicely. I know they're totally different, but neither character has to change their personality to fit in. This idea bit me in the butt and wouldn't leave me alone. –sigh-

I also had no idea where I wanted to stop this. I wasn't going to write the Games themselves, but I kind of wanted to see the training and stuff. However, this seemed like the perfect place, and I really wanted to use that closing line. Also, there will be no Hunger Games characters. [I tried to fit this in with the universe, pre-canon. Not early enough that people would remember the revolution, not late enough that he'd still be alive in Canon (he could be Haymitch's mentor though, if you think about, because who mentored Haymitch in the first place?]

Please review! [I hate saying that, but I always get so many hits/faves and no reviews. I'd like to know what I'm doing right or wrong! But no Mockingjay spoilers please]

I may or may not continue, but I think it's a fun idea. K 'bye. –Runs away-


	2. Chapter 2

The Science of Survival

Chapter Two

John was startled from his slumber by a loud, slightly obnoxious ringing noise that he'd never heard before in his life. Blearily, he flung his right arm out from the shelter of the covers and felt around his nightstand until his fingers brushed against a vibrating hunk of plastic. Bringing into the bed, right up close to his face, he realized that it was the source of the ringing, and was also displaying the time on its face.

4:30 AM.

He groaned, flicking the plastic contraption back onto the nightstand after it had stopped ringing. It wasn't that 4:30 in the morning was such an ungodly hour- John had been up before Dawn on quite a few occasions. But in these soft, warm sheets on an actual, good bed, John was going a little soft. But damn it, he had never had such luxuries- not even the mayor and his family of district twelve. No, John planned in sleeping in a bit- nightmare free for the first time since this whole thing started.

That is, until the damn thing started blasting its noise again. John had no idea what the thing even was, never mind how to stop the ringing. So he did his sleep addled mind thought was the next best thing- pulled one of the many extra pillows over his head, sandwiching himself. And to think, he'd sniffed contemptuously at them at first, deeming them feckless.

It turned itself off after a few minutes, and John was ready to let sleep claim him again. But this time mere seconds passed before a different sound began to play. Angrily, the soon to be contestant grabbed the device again, and instead of seeing the time on its little screen, there were words instead.

"New Message From [Sherlock]."

New message? Where? He turned it over in his hands, staring at all sides of it. It was small, incredibly thin and sleek. He hesitated, not pressing on anything too hard. Breaking something that didn't belong to him (something that, now that he was slightly more awake, he realized he hadn't even seen it before it appeared on his bedside table this morning) in the Capitol of all places would be very, very bad.

However, he had apparently managed to do something because the screen went dark and the noise and vibrating ceased immediately. John stiffened, scrambling to put it back on the table where it belonged, heart racing. This wasn't good. This was bad. Really, really bad. He bet the Peacekeepers were already on their way, some high tech alert signaling to them that the boy tribute from District Twelve was to be killed before the Games even started. So when the knock sounded at his door John went white as a sheet.

Without a pause, the door swung open to reveal Sherlock, and John began to stammer without making any real words. Sherlock said nothing to him, instead going over to the device, picking it up. He rolled his eyes.

"Why did you shut your phone off?" He asked. "I just texted you to come down for breakfast so we can start planning."

"I, I'm sorry I- what?" He stopped his constant stream of nervous vowels and apologies in confusion. "That's a… phone? But they have wires. They're in walls."

Sherlock huffed. "It's a cell phone, and I texted you."

This made John a little angry- like he should just know what this fantastical contraption was! "Well excuse me for never having seen a phone before! Let alone a little one that makes so much noise!"

This statement caused his mentor to blink and glance down at the phone. "The last tribute I tutored had owned one."

"Well I'm glad your last tribute was rich and didn't mine coal for a living."

Sherlock's last tribute must have been from District Three, where they made gadgets like this and it was common enough for people to own them. John watched as Sherlock flushed very, very slightly (and a less critical eye, like John's, would not have seen the momentary flash of guilt), and offered the thing to him.

"I prefer to text- send messages through this cell phone by typing- writing- them. It's faster." He showed John the button he had pressed. "It's not broken, just turned off. This is how you turn it on." The was no ringing, just a little symbol pulsating green light in the corner in the shape of the postal symbol. "That means you have a message." He demonstrated, sliding the device open, and the message popped onto the screen, reading 'Come down for breakfast. Now. –SH.'

John's mouth was in the shape of a little 'O' as he witnessed, to Sherlock, a very trivial piece of the technology that he relied on so frequently. It made his stomach twist, just a little bit, to think that so many people lived without something that he took for granted.

But Sherlock Holmes did not feel, not like this, and pushed the thoughts, and the emotion, away as he showed his new protégé how to press the side button and say his message, which converted to text form and was sent back to Sherlock. The man was certain that the teen would not grasp on quite yet, but seeing as how John was not going to lose this year, he'd have plenty of time to learn.

Breakfast was yet another veritable feast- both for the eyes and nose and especially the mouth. The eggs that were laid out were cooked some way John had never seen them cooked, and the sauces were actually lavender and rose colored, sweet but not overly. The fruits were exotic colors, sweet smelling and savory, and John had to stop himself from eating all of them. There were puffy, airy muffins laid out, and jams in flavors like "Illyrica Berry" and "Manchet Island Plum-Kil." Those were his favorites.

Sherlock ate very little, and simply observed John. It was a very simple deduction, all in all. John went hungry a lot, but wasn't self-deprecating enough to turn down the food. He might turn down fancier things, thinking they're a waste of time (he'd heard a remark about and idiotic amount of pillows, and knew that John fit under the category of "caregiver," caring more about his family than about himself,) but basic needs were basic needs.

He also started to realize that, though he might be short and small, John was a fighter. He fought against Peacekeepers, apparently, fought against his circumstances, fought against the idea of the games, and fought against his own mentor.

But what he fought for was far more important. He fought for his family, even when his family didn't fight for him. He fought for his pride- interestingly enough-, and he fought for his home, even if it was the poorest, last district in Panem.

If this pride did not turn out to be too stubborn, it might just save his life in the arena.

"This is fantastic!" John exclaimed, finishing his second muffin and leaning back with a contented sigh. Sherlock smirked.

"A fan of jam, then?"

"Well I haven't had it since I can remember so… yeah!" The words carried no self-pity, no embarrassed air, just excitement and simply pleasure that was contagious.

"We need to start planning. Your training begins today. You'll meet the other tributes. Do you have any skills?"

"Um…" John tapped his chin. "I'm not quite sure. It's not like I've had any chance to attack anyone before."

"You work in the mines."

"I… yes, but what does-"

"You know about types of rocks, staying alive in dangerous conditions and can handle heavy weapon-like tools like picks."

"Yeah. True."

"Are you good?"

"I'm decent, I suppose."

"The problem is you're small, so you shouldn't be engaging in hand to hand combat- which a pickaxe would force you to do."

John made a noise of indignation but Sherlock cut him off. "It's just a fact- your strength should be in a different area. Distance, perhaps."

This statement caused John to squirm uncomfortably in his seat and Sherlock knew beyond a doubt that the teen had more experience in distant weapons than he would admit. Instead, John said "I am a healer. Even if I get injured I can take care of myself."

Sherlock twisted his mouth. "So you're saying you're going to _outsurvive_ the other contestants?"

"I know about the berries out in forests, how to find food, where to get water."

Sherlock exhaled deeply, keeping his patience as intact as possible. "Important skills but you must be proactive in this."

"So you're saying I have to kill people?" There was defiance in his eyes, and a little fear and disgust.

"Yes."

John's face went slack, jaw open. The mentor groaned, grabbing the bridge of his nose.

"Yes, I'm blunt, but you have to be or you are going to die. You want to get back alive? It means twenty three other people cannot."

Apparently, John's pride did not leak over into his interactions with other people. He was a healer, a caring soul inside that anger and frustration, who liked the challenge but balked at harming others. Perhaps outliving them would make him feel better, reconcile that cognitive dissonance that ever single contestant faced. John Watson would not come out of this emotionally okay, but he would survive.

"Alright." John nodded. "I get it." That surprised Sherlock, but John would deal with it whatever way he would.

"Now, knowing about food and water isn't just enough- that arena might be anything, so we'll have to cover all the skills- you'll visit every single training area, and tell me if you have inkling of something you might be good at. Do not, and this is important, do not try to go all out here. You'll be revealing a possible advantage."

John nodded, but he blushed slightly around the ears, and didn't voice the fact that he most likely wouldn't have realized that without the warning.

The mentor indicated for them to leave the table, and two Avox's- criminals turned servants who did their duty sans tongues- came out to clear the remains of breakfast. John wanted to catch their eye, say something to make him feel less awkward, but the taller man led him through the doors and distracted with a question.

"So did I get it right?"

"Hunh?"

"Yesterday, was I correct?"

A puzzled look flashed across John's face until realization hit. "Oh! Oh yes. Quite brilliant."

"The drinking?"

"Yes, and the goofing off."

Sherlock grinned, and it looked alien on his face for having appeared so infrequently.

"Alright, al_right_. Didn't expect to get _everything_ right."

"Harry does tend to skip out on things, and just left a very reliable girlfriend."

"Naturally."

"Harry is short for Harriet."

John committed the look on the other's face to memory, because of how amusing it was and how he knew he would not be seeing it again anytime soon.

"The sister! Ah, it's always something, isn't it?"

It's always something.

A/N: This baby is goddamn writing itself. Dude. It's SO MUCH FUN. What the what.

Something about me- I'm a whump freak. In this fandom it's John whump, especially heroic!John whump, so there's going to be plenty of that, but it's The Hunger Games, there's no way there wouldn't be. [If anyone knows any awesome stories that I missed about some heroic!John whump you should always tell me]. Just thought I'd put that in there, since I'm ACTUALLY going to be writing this story instead of just keeping it as a one shot. There will be blood and gore and psychological trauma. [It's like Afghanistan in this universe. Yeah. That was the original connection I made, truth be told, the war connection.]

Um, anything else? Nope. Review please, and thank you for the story alerts- I didn't think many people would like this particular crossover. Hm. Interesting!

Reeeeviewwww you're the best ;)


	3. Chapter 3

The Science of Survival

Chapter Three

_Lightning flashed, and beyond the roar of water and thunder very little could be heard. Except the yelling. It rolled and boomed with the elements. Harry was crying in the corner, and the jagged flashes of light made the man's face appear demonically inhuman._

_He was stumbling over his feet, firmly in front of his sister._

_His mother cradling the girl._

_Father taking no action._

_The man's hand went to the whip, John's hand went over his eye. It was fire, pure fire, and screaming. He was being dragged away, leaking blood but not tears._

_Lightning fragmented the scene, and he was in his room, locked away from the Peacekeeper, form the family. But he saw the enforcement office leer over the women, and he yelled for his father. _

_Who never came._

_Instincts took over, blinded him, but the door to the stairs was barred, and he banged, yelled screamed. No answer. No answer came and John was scared and couldn't breathe and ran blindly, tripping falling, panting, into his father's room and there was no one, no one and nothing-_

_The glint of dull, scratched metal caught his eye and bloodlust consumed him. Illuminated by the flashes, he grabbed it, heart pounding with the thunder and tried to break the door down._

_No time. Someone was shrieking. Someones. He ran to the window. His. Where he saw the street every few seconds. Where three people and the rain were all that existed. _

_He didn't have to break the glass, the window was open._

_The rain beat down over his face, but his hands stayed steady, and his fingers worked themselves._

_And there was fire again, all over his palms, but the shrieking had stopped._

_All was silent but for the slowly subsiding storm._

John opened his eyes slowly. His heart was hammering, but he wasn't coming to in the throes of his usual nightmare-like state. That dream hadn't occurred in a long, long time, and he wondered what had caused it.

The pattering at his window gave him an answer. Just like that night, a rolling storm was passing through, now its stage of subsiding, lightning lighting up the distant horizon. John went to the sill, opening and sticking his head out until it was thoroughly drenched.

Had he looked towards the new contraption- the strange little phone- he would have known that he had another hour until Sherlock came a calling (quite literally), but instead of catching another hour of sleep, he decided he needed to think about that night. Really think about it, once again.

It happened, every so often. It happened the night before he started working in the mines, a year afterwards. It happened before his sort-of friend Michael had been called for the Reaping the fourth year that the two were eligible. Like his body knew monumental changes were in store. And each time John Watson sat and thought, replaying the night as if sucking poison from a wound.

But this time, the thoughts were stuck, like iron walls closing around his memory. Instead, he stared at his wrist, where the harsh line was still visible- the only reminder of that horrific scene. There was actually a small fleck of a scar above his right eyebrow, and he began to realize that he was almost lucky. That he had saved his eye. That the Capital hadn't come hunting, turning him into a voiceless Avox. That his family was still alive.

"I hope Harry gets her act together," he whispered to himself, finally voicing what needed to be voiced. He didn't need to think about that night again. It would haunt him forever, but it was something he had dealt with. Acknowledged. Now something else needed to be.

The pressure on his chest, and that fear he'd been ignoring. Of approaching inevitability. He'd survived The Seam, the Peacekeepers, his falling apart family. But this was The Capital. This was a death sentence.

For all his bravery- or was it bravado?- John was seeing himself for what he was- a kid from the last district. A kid who still needed to feel the touch of rain on his skin to know he was existed.

A kid who was already dead.

And, for the first time, John gave himself into the tears.

* * *

><p>The moment he walked down to breakfast, John could see in Sherlock's eyes that the mentor knew something was off. Of course, a man as brilliant as Sherlock Holmes could see through a careful façade, could probably read the newfound, newly acknowledged, hopelessness from the way he'd laced his boots or something.<p>

"Eat, and talk." The command was simple, quiet and direct, which was refreshing. Harry didn't like to talk to him all that much, Clara gave him a sympathetic look from time to time, and right after the incident, Michael had been cautious and gentle.

And John had not been forthcoming.

He was not a soul that needed to be patronized.

Sherlock did not patronize.

John sat, reaching for the muffin and the crazy jams, and stared pensively at it. Of course, he wasn't about to say anything about the dream or the memories.

"I'm contemplating mortality."

Sherlock raised an eyebrow, quietly peeling one of the mango-fruits John had forgotten the name of.

"Oh?"

"Specifically my own."

"Oh. Rubbish."

John paused mid-bite to look at him incredulously. "Excuse you?"

"I said-"

"No, I heard what you said, I require further explanation."

"Well it's rubbish, isn't it?" Sherlock stated this like he was pointing out his name or the color of the sky outside. "Considering your mortality- won't do you any good in the arena, and your eventual demise will at least not occur during this upcoming stretch of time."

If he had a mirror, John would have seen that his expression was reminiscent of a fish. "You do understand that this is The Hunger Games, right?"

"I'm not an idiot, John," Sherlock responded amusedly, "But you are apparently."

"That is not-!"

"Oh don't fret, practically everyone is. Your idiocy, at this moment, stems from your improbable and irrational deduction that you will die."

"It's not irrational! It's inevitable!"

Silence fell between them, John twisting on the seat. He might have been gratified, even flattered, to know that Sherlock Holmes, who never got emotionally connected to his protégés, was feeling a trifle uncomfortable, even the tiniest iota of guilt at John's fear. A privileged young resident of the Capital, sitting across from a condemned man.

Then, humorously, he realized why so many people he mentored became so waspish with him after a while.

"It's not, of course it isn't. You came in here saying you'd be going home alive. And you choose _now_ to contemplate your death? After you've gotten me as a tutor, who's never had a single mentee die in the Games? Idiotic."

John smiled thinly, but it quickly fell from his lips. "You didn't pick me." It wasn't a question, it was a fact.

And Sherlock wasn't quite sure what to say.

"No, I didn't." The admission wasn't necessary, but still spoken. "But that's not totally true. I could have chosen to not mentor these Games at all."

John quirked a disbelieving eyebrow. "So you knew you'd be getting me?"

"Yes."

"How…?"

"I owed a man a favor- he was selected to mentor you. I examined your file, and took over for him."

"So he didn't want me?"

"When a man is about to become a father, I suspect he wants little else than his wife and child and an army of over qualified doctors."

"Oh."

And, just like that, John felt a little better.

* * *

><p>Training day arrived only hours later, and the tremor in John's left hand, which plagued him from time to time, was back. Funny, it hadn't been there at the Reaping, nor upon meeting Sherlock. But now it was, and he could barely hear Kyra's droning, nor her platitudes for both him and little Sarah.<p>

But he did notice when Olive entered, and his features lit up. She bent to give him a hug, even while her team of stylists moaned over his growing stubble and ungroomed hair.

"How are you dear?" She asked kindly, pulling him up, neither noticing Sherlock watching them intently.

"The camera-friendly answer?"

She chuckled warmly, and guided John into a room, where the three stylists fell upon him, razors, scissors, and tweezers aloft.

"I'm terrified, actually," John murmured, while Olive half watched him, half flicked through a sketchbook. "I don't have any skills."

"I'm sure you do."

"Not like this! Not for, for… fighting!" For killing. He didn't say that.

"That's what training day is for. I'm sure Sherlock already told you to visit every station."

"Of course, but…"

"You're not just there to practice, you're there to learn."

"I suppose…"

"Now Johnny, this is going to be the best costume I've ever made, so you're going to have to model more of my fabulous creations on that Victory Tour."

John was starting to think that too many people were either in denial or suffering from over-confidence, but it buoyed his spirits.

"Of course! Who else would I ever wear?" Olive grinned at his statement.

"Good, because I've finished your interview piece. It will be magnificent."

But his time with Olive and the stylists was up and, freshly trimmed and groomed, he and Sarah were whisked off to training.

* * *

><p>Sherlock had been noncommittal on the idea of John making allies, saying it would neither help nor hurt (John wasn't quite sure how that was possible), but apparently, everyone else was making that decision for him. The Careers looked down their noses at him, knowing his mentor's reputation and trying to act contemptuous about a boy who should, in all other cases, be a dead man walking.<p>

Sarah said nothing to him, nor anyone, spending time at the knot weaving table, learning how to fashion traps for people and food.

The poor souls from the non Career districts looked defeated before the outset, practicing with knives, learning about edible foods.

John didn't even go to the weapons. He was at the camouflage table, still clinging to a hope that he might be able to out-survive the other contestants. Sherlock would yell at him for that. But he wasn't the one who was facing the options of kill or be killed.

His eyes strayed over to the weaponry, and he didn't know if he was relieved or worried that his own tool of choice was not present. He wondered vaguely if the Capital even _allowed_ those weapons in the Games. It would be too easy, wouldn't it? Quick deaths ? But then again, most people would not know how to use one, and could end up giving a lot of wounds that would kill over a long period of time, or simply hurt a hell of a lot.

But that would mean killing. Taking someone else's life away just to spare his own.

Okay, alright, he smiled at the camouflage trainers, thanking them for explaining the differences between forest light, desert light, and jungle light, and approached the wall of weaponry. There were a whole multitude of knives, shining and sharp. He ignored those, and grabbed the bow and arrow from the top of the wall. Problem was, he didn't know how to use it.

"Are you interested in trying out the crossbow?" A pleasant voice asked him- a woman from the training table.

"Um yes, I am."

So he fumbled through the lesson with clumsy fingers. She kindly showed him how to string up the arrows, aim and fire, and the entire time he could see the words being written over her face 'doesn't stand a chance.' Maybe he didn't.

But he did. He had Sherlock.

The realization hit him like a fist in the gut. John Watson did not trust his father, his mother or his sister. He hadn't trusted Michael, he didn't trust the Capital- he didn't even trust himself.

But he trusted Sherlock Holmes.

And in that second he knew he could shoot the bull's eye on the target, but refrained, not wanting to shatter this illusion of confidence he'd regained.

No. He smiled at the helpful woman and met up with Sarah at the knot-tying station. He wouldn't look into her eyes, knowing if he did he would remember them. He initiated a soft conversation instead.

"So are you learning a lot here?" he asked jovially, attempting to make a simple snare.

Sarah nodded timidly.

"Hopefully we'll be able to catch something good," he half-joked, completing the looping tie.

"You'll catch something," she said. "You'll live long enough."

"Sarah! Don't say that-"

"It's true, John, you know it, I do too. Just… try to win, okay?" she grabbed his arm. "For home. We need it."

And he was looking into her eyes, sure beyond a doubt they would haunt his dreams every night. That was how he must have looked that morning, how Sherlock knew something was wrong- he was wearing the eyes of a dead man.

He did something then, that he would probably regret, but he ran his hand through Sarah's hair in lieu of a hug. He wouldn't give her false hope, platitudes she'd throw away, but trued to bring a little home, a little District Twelve, a little poor but happy warmth, to her again. Because that's what she needed.

That's what he needed too.

Right now, though, he needed Sherlock.

* * *

><p>AN: Yet ANOTHER chapter, done done DONE right before work. I feel like I'm rushing this, but I really needed a moment between Sarah and John just to bring a little humanity into the Games.

-dies- Alright, I need to make coffee so I have enough energy to face the kids I work with. Enjoy. And PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE review- I see that I'm on some alert lists, which is awesome, thank you! But I'd like to know what I'm doing right! Or wrong!


	4. Chapter 4

The Science of Survival

Chapter Four

* * *

><p>"You didn't see her, though, Sherlock!" John wailed, pacing behind the chair meant for him in his bedroom, while his mentor sat in the other, watching him with no movement save for his tracking eyes. "Like she was already dead inside. Why? Why is she here? She's twelve, she's <em>from <em>Twelve, she never did anything." He yanked at his noticeably limp ashy hair.

"Your thoughts are bordering on traitorous, John."

He sent a wicked glare at his mentor. "Does it matter?"

"Yes, it does, actually."

John slumped, sliding into his chair, hands going once again to fist in his hair. "I know. I mean, I think I know. I guess I don't. How am I supposed to feel?"

The question was meant to be rhetorical, but Sherlock, ever logical, answered it immediately. "Grateful, fearful, nervous, excited. About the Games, not about their existence."

"Right. Of course, they're even telling me what to think."

"If you want to live, you'll listen- to them and to me."

John glanced up at him, tired bags pooling under his eyes. "To you…?"

"We have the interview in a few days- and, of course, you must present yourself to the game makers."

The interview? Olive had said something about that, but it hadn't registered until now; now, when he had to stifle thoughts that bordered on traitorous, just to stay alive.

"And you'll have to do more than pass by, John- I'm a well-connected man but you're going to need sponsors, too."

"No one's going to want to sponsor some kid from Twelve, Sherlock."

Sherlock nodded. "Normally, that's true. Someone from Twelve would need a cause, of course. But you don't have any relatives who are sick or dying..."

John flinched at that, mind spinning around images of Harry and the white alcohol, his mother in bed, father spending every hour at the coal mines. And then Mike, who'd gone off to his own death with a mask of determination and resignation fitted over his features. The women he bought the bread and meat from, the children at school, and little Sarah, dying inside already.

"I'm from Twelve," John sighed, dropping his gaze to his knees while his hands continued to twist and pull at his hair. "We're all dying."

Had he been looking up, John would have seen the spark of recognition light up the other's eyes. As it was, the tribute barely flinched when Sherlock spoke.

"That's it, John."

John grudgingly looked up.

"What's it?"

"Your angle."

"Angle." John's flat tone was deadpan and disbelieving.

"Yes. You are now fighting on behalf of your district." Sherlock was now grinning, quickly unfolding his lanky legs and rising, walking behind the chair and gripping it.

"This is it, this is it John! Most people are fighting for the glory, and everyone from the career districts says that they do it to honor the games. Everyone knows what a load of rubbish that is. And tributes from the middle will fight for loved ones- but you, John, you are fighting for all of Twelve. A district suffering from poverty, sickness, and the disease of hopelessness. You will bring your home, your world, back to life, because it means so much to you!"

He jumped slightly, dragging his fists through the air. "Oh, it's Christmas."

His enthusiasm was infectious. The roller coaster of John's emotions started banking again, and a small smile stretched across his lips.

"So you think I have a chance with this?"

Sherlock paused.

"Do you really not see how brilliant this is? I wonder what it's like, being trapped in your dull brain every day." John made a face at that, but Sherlock waved it off. "Oh don't take offence- nearly _everyone_ is dull. But yes, you have more than a chance. With a story like that, that Capital will be appeased, as will the people of other poorer districts, who will understand where you come from. And it will make the Careers look selfish in comparison."

"Well I'm glad you can turn my misfortune into a brilliant strategy."

Sherlock arched an eyebrow at the bitterness in John's tone.

"I thought you were going to toughen your skin against this, John. We do what we must to win."

John nodded. "I know."

"And I know you do. Now I believe you have another appointment with your stylist," the word fell from Sherlock's lips like something disgusting causing John to bristle in defense of Olive, "so go get ready. And I still expect you to disclose what weapon you favor."

Sherlock swept from the room, leaving John alone for a few moments.

* * *

><p>"Oh good boy, I think you've put some weight on," Olive remarked happily, as her team went back and forth, giving her measurements that John couldn't really comprehend the meaning of. He wasn't quite sure what numbers were "good" or "bad," but then again he couldn't quite bring himself to care.<p>

"Sorry but, was I laboring under the delusion that gaining weight was a bad thing…?"

"Nonsense. Especially not for you. You were skin and bones when you came to me."

"Hey now! I worked in the mines! That has to count!"

"Oh fine, skin, bones and a little bit of muscle. But look at you now- go ahead, look." With a warmly warn palm she gestured to the full length mirror up against the wall- an item John hadn't paid much attention to.

But now he looked, and looked hard. He saw cheeks more filled in, adding definition to his jaw. Hair that, thanks to proper rest and a great team of stylists, fell in soft chunks and almost glowed in the light. His neck led down to shoulders rounded by years of work, but now they were connected to wiry, muscled arms and a strong torso. Even his legs, muscled from mining, looked straighter, carried him with more confidence.

All in all, John looked to picture of health- a far cry from anyone back home, surely.

"Well dear," Olive politely interrupted his musings, "I think I've got what I need. This outfit will be one of my finest, I guarantee."

"An outfit based on _coal_? You're just being kind."

Olive grinned, the laugh lines around her face stretching with her lips. John had to appreciate the soft, worn edges of his stylist. Her three associates were so stretched and tattooed and painted and unnatural- disguised beyond recognition- that having Olive was like being home, where growing old was a sign of health and not of weakness.

The Capital seemed to treat anything ordinary like an enemy. Having the scandalous, the warped, the outspoken become the new normal; it was clever, really.

Even Sherlock, the man on whom John had come to almost depend, to see as the weather vane for how he should feel, was extraordinary. He was a genius. Cold, calculating, surprisingly rational- he was just… someone above and beyond the average man.

Olive was close to average. She was still a cut above the rest, but she had a certain contentedness about her that kept her stable and grounded. She was kind, generous, amused- and real artist when it came to fashion which John had discovered looking at past works of hers. But she was simply fine with all of, and didn't strive to outsmart herself which seemed to be an affliction that plagued so many.

John was average. He could accept the fact he was tied to earth, to mundane human emotions, chained to the barest flicker of his instinct to survive. He was someone who worked just to maintain a life. With the effort he put in, he should be living like a citizen of the Capital. But his toiling just kept him at par with the rest of the Seam. Ashy hair, grey eyes, short- even physically he didn't stand out.

Sherlock and Olive- two above average people- saw something in him though. Something, _someone_, that, apparently, John couldn't see.

Surely people of this caliber couldn't be wrong, could they?

* * *

><p>AN: Okay! So! Done with this part! I'm quite pleased with it. The real stuff actually starts next chapter. I just needed to set up John's angle, and leave room for a little introspection. We're also going to see some familiar faces in the next part, which I'm pretty sure will be the examination before the Gamemakers.

In this, I just wanted to set a sort of… standard I guess? That the "goodness" in the story actually comes from the average, since we're mainly seeing this world from John's perspective. If you go on Wikipedia and read about the reasons Martin was cast as John, then you'll kind of see why I like being in this territory.

Also, any discrepancies/plot holes you see that conflict with the actual trilogy- I see them too. Which means they are there for a reason (one comes to mind right now, seeing as how I was talking about it in the actual part).

Anyhoo, enjoy! AND PLEASE COMMENT. I see I'm getting alerts and faves, which is love, but please tell me what I'm doing right/wrong. Speculate on what you think the arena will be! Or what familiar characters we will see! :D


	5. Chapter 5

Chapter Five

* * *

><p>John was actually more nervous about the ceremonies and the interview than he was about facing the Gamemakers. It was absurd. He knew that. But John would rather prove himself through his talent than put himself at the mercy of the Capital citizens. It seemed wholly unnecessary- all this parading and showing off and fancy clothing. They were going to be slaughtered anyway.<p>

Slaughtered by me, John wanted to think, but he didn't because by now he was certain, quite certain, that anyone else in his place would also kill rather than be killed. And they would do it a hell of a lot better than him.

Take the district seven tributes. The girl was rather unoriginally named Maple, for a type of tree that grew there- but she was really anything but mundane. For a woman she was rather tall, maybe taller than John, and had lean, long muscles honed from years of hauling lumber, as was the trade there. She had a solid grace about her- fast and strong, and could throw with alarming vigor. He watched her scale one of the rock walls like it was nothing but solid earth, and she was an expert in hand to hand combat. If all the trainees were holding back their special talents, then John shuddered to think what she could do even better than climb and fight.

Crusher and Victoria were the boy and girl from District One, and born Careers. Crusher wielded a thick sword as if it were made of nothing. Not exactly gracefully, but with a vicious purpose that scared John even in training, where it was illegal to engage the other tributes.

Victoria was the pure steel anger to Crusher's malicious snide. While he seemed to be laughing at the world, she knew who she was and what she was here for. Her determination was matched by her short, powerful frame. He saw her wield a very terrifying pair of maces, and could almost visualize the blood dripping down them.

They, probably along with the pair from Seven would no doubt team up. Normally, the pair from District Two would also join District One, but in this case, John witnessed some polarizing from them. The two, Kenneth Anderson and Sally Donovan, seemed like the model, upright citizens that District Two was famous for. John had no doubt that, if they hadn't been in these Games, they would have aspirations to becoming Peacekeepers. While, technically, Peacekeepers only came from the Capital, but District Two, where their training was, was rumored to supply some of their own children for the training, and thus the job.

It was abundantly evident, especially in Sally, in the way they carried themselves. Posing as detatched and lofty, but overly observant of the behaviors of others. When Maple had cut in front of Sally in the line to practice with weapons, Sally had quietly let her take her place forward. But, somehow, every single knot and rope Maple tried to work with not only came undone, but completely unraveled. Even the lighter, unbraided ropes. It was subtle and ingenious.

That Anderson fellow, he seemed to follow the Big Kids on the Playground, and might have drifted over to the Careers. But he stuck with Sally. Sherlock would have said that it meant she was more formidable than she looked- had actually told him that.

But John simply assumed they were in love. Which was no less formidable than assuming the hidden prowess of Sally Donovan.

John saw them, and he saw the desperation and the determination in their eyes, in the way they grabbed the weapons from each other, in the way that they soaked up information like sponges. Like him. Just like him.

He wasn't anything too special. Not unworthy, but not extraordinary. So he would kill. They all would.

John would be the last person to present to the Gamemakers that day. He was the boy from District Twelve, so Sara would go before him. But by the time they had sat through all the other highly qualified tributes… John would have to content himself with the knowledge that he would get no higher than a five.

Sara sat beside him, picking at her lunch. While the other tributes, notably the Careers, covered their nervousness with boisterous chatter, John passed his time by grabbing Sara's hand and caressing the knuckles lightly. Her hands weren't trembling. John sincerely hoped that Sara was finding more of her inner courage. He hadn't missed at how her face had lit up when she had completed five complex, advanced snares in a row.

Speak of the devil. Sort of.

"Oi." Sally Donovan slid across from them, delicately eating a soft roll, but staying away from the heavier, spicier food. "You're Sara Morstan, right?"

"Um, yeah," Sara offered questioningly.

"I saw your snares."

Sara stiffened.

"They were good. Wish I had been at the table more."

"Oh, right. Yeah."

Sally sighed, letting the tension roll from her shoulders. John had to remind himself that she was only sixteen and not a grown woman.

"You're Sally Donovan?" John extended his arm politely.

"Yeah mate. You're John Watson." She grasped his hand and shook. Her own was surprisingly warm, soft with a few rough calloused ridges. A worker.

Hey- a simple deduction. Perhaps Sherlock would be pleased with that (even though the other man would probably have guessed that off the bat- not guessed, knew. Knew.).

Sherlock would also tell him why Sally was talking to him. Obviously she disdained the rambunctious, vicious Careers. But there must be some reason she would talk to him and Sara.

Anderson joined them, looking put-out. Sally rolled her eyes at him.

"Hi mate," John greeted. Anderson's eyes softened a bit, and he nodded in return. John didn't notice that they didn't need to exchange names.

"Those morons," Sally huffed. "They act like they're at a party or something. Bunch of freaks."

"Who?"

"District One and District Seven," she spat out. "They should be focusing."

"Oh, right."

Crusher left for the room at the back.

Awkward silence haunted the odd quartet.

"Oh stop squirming you prat," Sally finally admonished Anderson. He glared at her.

"Excuse me, but _someone_ has been twisting her hair nonstop for days on end-"

"Just shut _up_, Ken."

"Are you two… do you know each other?"

It brought the bickering pair up short.

"Yeah. Sort of."

It dawned on John exactly what that meant. He paled slightly.

"Oh, I-I, I'm sorry."

Sally waved him off, but Anderson's face seemed to cave in a bit.

Maple left for the Gamemakers.

"What about you two?" Sally gestured to their linked hands. Sara had the grace not to blush, solidly looking into Sally's eyes.

"We met here," she said truthfully. Sally grinned.

"You have spunk."

"Spunk?"

"Spirit, fire, what you will."

It seemed to buoy Sara and restore her appetite, at least for the same bread Sally had worked through. She lifted a roll, savoring it for a moment, before determinedly eating it with her left hand. John was absurdly, disproportionately proud of her for that, and dug into his own food as Sally was called away.

* * *

><p>John really couldn't believe that he was standing here. It seemed like the great mess hall had emptied at hyper speed, and now here he was. The Gamemakers, five men who should have been intimidating, were now feasting on glazed goose. John should have been angry.<p>

But a strange calmness started to live in his limbs. Only one of the Gamemakers, the Head, seemed to be dutifully focused on him. There was an infinite sadness in the man's eyes, the kind that could not be produced by any sort of single event. His hair, dark on the top, was starting to grey near the temples, and his eyes were crowded with premature lines.

John began his routine. He picked up some of the small throwing knives, testing their weight, and threw them at the target. One out of five hit the bull's eye- not bad, but surely some had done much better. The Gamemakers seemed uninterested. The Head gave him a small, sad smile.

Next John strung up some intricate, masterful snares. Nowhere near as good as Sara's, or even Sally's. But solid, and could prove useful. The Head Gamemaker nodded, beginning to look tired of this mostly average boy from District Twelve. But it did not appease John.

The contentedness turned to anger, and his head whipped to the weapons rack. There, right there, small and sleek- infinitely better than the model he'd used last time, no doubt more powerful as well. Quickly, before his mind caught up with his muscles, it was in his hand, the chambers checked and spun (this modified one actually held eleven, not six), and he fired ten consecutive shots, perfectly outlining the Head Gamemaker's seated silhouette on the wall behind him in blanks loaded with red dye.

One final remained in the chamber. John did not fire it. The Head Gamemaker said nothing but nodded serenely, and John awaited instruction.

"Thank you, John Watson, for your time and talent. You may exit now."

John was surprised that the man had (very nearly) the same accent as him- a rugged one with a certain smoothness to it that was very far from the Capital's dialect.

And he was also shocked that he was given the form dismissal and not greeted by a pair of Peacekeepers to escort him out.

After he left and the doors closed behind him, John realized that he could have fired that last shot, right at the outline's forehead as a symbol of defiance.

He thanked his instincts, those wonderful instincts of self-preservation, that he had not, in his addled state, done so. It must have been Sherlock's influence, his constant wary tone and critical eye that kept him from doing so.

* * *

><p>It was time. John was taking deep breaths through his nose as Olive and her team put the finishing touches on him. He had to say, as she fluffed his color and smoothed his lapels, that he should have trusted her far more than he had. She hadn't gone the usual route of a coal-miner's uniform for him (or even something far more dramatic and embarrassing).<p>

Originally she had entertained the notion of diamonds- but it wasn't close enough to coal to be feasible, and she didn't want to cause trouble with Districts One or Five. So she settled on a different approach, one that she confided to John that she actually liked better.

"I was always a fan of subtlety," she had remarked with a mischievous glint in her eye. John had been fairly frightened of that. Would the judges, the potential sponsors, not realize what Olive was intending? Would it not make a large enough statement? Would John fade into the background- yet again?

But staring at himself in the mirror now, while the last few touches were done to his hair, John was filled with a surge of pride and confidence. That muscle tone and weight gain gave him a healthy glow- accented only slightly by the bare essentials make-up that had been applied to his face. Many tributes walked out to their interview completely unrecognizable under layers of outrageous colors. But John cheekbones and rough tan skin simply glowed, and except for the bare dusting of a fine silver-gray powder above his eyes, he looked remarkably like himself.

Just healthier.

Then there was the costume- even though his clothes barely crossed that line from outfit to show-piece. The top was very simple, a black formal jacket with glittering black fastenings over a dark grey shirt. Instead of slacks, he was wearing breeches that faded, from black at the waist, to a lighter grey at the bottom, and on his feet were boots. Not workman's boots, but lighter ones, that faded out to a blanched white at the bottom. From bottom to middle to top, John was a study in gradients.

Attached to parts of the outfit were thin gossamer sheets of fabric, invisible when he was standing still, but that kicked and swirled when he moved, pooling around his feet, gracing his arms. Like a sheer cloud of dust that seemed to simply follow him without being attached.

He grinned, trailing one arm in front of him, watching the sheer fabric float with him, invisibly attached to his sleeve. It was brilliant. In fact, John needed to let Olive know that in an eloquent statement full of appreciation and gratitude.

"It's brilliant!"

Olive chuckled.

"Well dear, I worked with what I had. And what we had…"

"Is smoke," John finished proudly. He'd never seen this done, in all his life. The closes had been when, four years ago, when the two tributes had been stark naked and covered in coal dust. This was simply sublime.

"I think you're ready dear."

John nodded, willing himself to believe that. The doors opened, allowing Sara and her stylist through as well. John's grin widened. Apparently, the two had compared notes- because Sara was also displaying the idea of smoke that Olive had deemed so appropriate.

Her dress hit her knees, and started black on the bottom, fading through the spectrum until it reached her neck with a light grey color, trailing down her slightly loose sleeves. Her feet were also in nice boot- shorter ones- slightly obscured by the wispy, ingenious fabric that John suspected Olive had created just for them.

For Sara, the "smoke" circled her arms in an almost spiral, instead of merely floating. And her long, red hair had been affixed with a few strands that seemed to just linger there, among a few pieces of hair that had been artfully powdered with glittering coal dust. Her makeup, too, was natural, just hinting at shades of grey and beautifully highlighting her own features. They would both be recognizable.

John grasped one of her hands in his, their smoke-screens intertwining ever so gently. It felt like home, where a thin layer of dust clung to everything and grasping hands with someone would kick it up. Genius. He squeezed her, and she smiled, filled with strength. Awaiting a moment of glory- not matter what the future held.

They left.

* * *

><p>Upon seeing the other tributes, that fear came rushing back for John. The girl from district one was decked out in precious jewels until she resembled some sort of glittering rainbow of wealth- and the boy from four resembled some sort of fishing God, with his crown and azure body paint.<p>

With all these vibrant, bustling creatures, would a wisp of smoke even be noticed?

There was no time- no time. They were being loaded into their chariot for the rounds before meeting with Sunny Soo Lin, who had been conducting the interviews for ten years now. John was directed to stand close to Sarah, wave with his right, while she waved with her left. He realized that, even though they didn't touch, their smokiness intertwined and almost made them appear as one being.

Olive was a subtle, masterful genius. There was no doubting it now. John was surrounded by them, wasn't he? Olive, and Sherlock. God, he was going to get a complex from all this.

The applause for District One broke him out of his musings. Olive touched his arm as Sarah turned to her Capital mentor for a quick conversation.

"You know what to say, John," Sherlock told him.

"Yeah, I know, I know," he replied.

"You _do_," he emphasized.

"I know! I…"

Sherlock gave him that look, the one that said 'Please John, don't put on that act.' John nodded.

The chariot lurched.

Damn it, damn it, damn-

"John, remember," Olive told him quickly, releasing his arm. "You _are _smoke. I wouldn't steer you wrong."

What the hell did that even mean? But too soon, the chariot left its place and John lifted his arm in anticipation, letting it brush Sara's, while the lights had blinded him.

* * *

><p>"And now, ladies and gentlemen, we have our last, but not least, District Twelve!" 'Sunny' Soo Lin announced in a chipper voice. From her eyes, her hair, her figure- she didn't seem to look like anyone else in Panem. It had allowed her career to skyrocket in media, when she flipped her exotic locks and batted her eyelashes. Combined with her natural talent and her passion for people, she was one of the best known commentators in the Capital.<p>

"So tell me, Sara, what was your reaction when they called your name?"

Sara valiantly hid her terror, instead letting her face look surprised and anticipating. "Well, it was such a shock. I mean, of all the people in District Twelve, it was my name they called- and at my second reaping. I definitely wasn't prepared for it."

Soo Lin nodded, as if she understood completely. "That's understandable my dear. What's been your favorite part of your experience thus far?"

"Well… I have to say that you guys make some fantastic beds here in the Capital- I've never been that comfortable in my life!" The crowd laughed with appreciation.

John had to hand it to Sara, her light answers endeared her to the audience, and they were diplomatic enough that she didn't have to lie about anything outright.

"Are you excited about the Games?" Soo Lin pressed. Sara twisted her fingers with a thoughtful look.

"I'm so curious, so anxious to know what will happen," Sara admitted. "Every year the arenas are so intricate, so well planned- I can't even being to imagine what will happen this year!" The crowd clapped and applauded.

"Oh Sara, I'm so sorry we only have three minutes together. Good luck, my dear!" Sara gracefully stepped off the platform.

"Finally, yes finally folks, we have John Watson from District Twelve!" The crowd applauded, maybe not with the most fervor of anyone, but enough to bolster him. He shook Soo Lin's delicate hand, absent of any roughness or lines. Not the hands of a worker. He worried, absurdly, that his own calluses would rub off on her and sully her palm.

"John, you must be so excited. Tell me, we know Sara loved the beds here," here she paused to the audience could chuckle, "what about you?"

"Well, I don't object to the jam," John said off handedly, and the audience laughed again, "but to be honest… I really don't have a favorite thing." Soo Lin seemed to not notice the second meaning of his words.

"Yes, everything here must be so wonderful for you here- it must be different from back home."

"Yes Soo Lin, it really is. For one, I barely know w single person!" The audience laughed.

"Do you have a plan yet for the Games? They're right around the corner!"

John grinned. "Well, I can't tell you that, Soo! For obvious reasons!" The audience clapped at his openness.

"We're running out of time John, but lastly, do you have anyone back home waiting for you?"

John took a deep breath. This was it. "Yes, Soo, I do. But it's not someone."

"Your family," she supplied knowingly. John nodded.

"In a way. See, in District Twelve, the lines get blurred. My family is waiting for me, but that's more than my parents and my sister. That's a lot of people- all the people who raised me, who watched me grow. That's my family- everyone. Every person in the Seam, everyone who counts me as part of their own brood. So yes, Soo, I have my family waiting for me."

Silence followed for a second before the applause trickled in, slowly, building to a hesitant but supportive cacophony. Soo Lin shook his hand, thanking him, and he exited, feeling a little weak in the knees.

Smoke. Hunh. He'd have to think about that one.

* * *

><p>AN: HERE IT IS. Sorry it's late, but to be honest, this is the story I'm updating the most frequently xD I have the arena planned out, and I'm already dreading/anticipating writing the actual Games. Oh godddd. But yes. Here it is.

IS THIS PLOT. WHAT. WHAT WHAT WHAT. Yeah, it is. The story is moving! The Games start next update! It still occurs to me that, while we're seeing some familiar faces, they're like, the tip of the iceberg in my mind. There's all these characters running around behind the scenes, that I can't write about yet because it would give away my endgame (and I actually HAVE an endgame, with plot-y goodness. This is the first story I've written that relies more on the plot than on the characters. Pretty insane.)

I tried to make this longer because you've all been wonderful and so patient with me =3 ENJOY! And PLEASE PLEASE REVIEW. I always gets faves/alerts, and while that makes me squee, I'd also love to hear what you actually think about it. And you predictions! I'd LOVE TO HEAR YOUR PREDICTIONS.


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